


A Bout of Love

by ChamomileTeaPages



Category: Phineas and Ferb
Genre: Caring for your best friend, Carl has a cold, Coronavirus does not exist in this universe, Cuddling & Snuggling, Declarations Of Love, Domestic Fluff, Excessive overuse of the word like-like, Fluff, Illnesses, M/M, POV Second Person, Sick Carl Karl, Sick Character, Wholesome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-17
Updated: 2020-11-17
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:08:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27597317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChamomileTeaPages/pseuds/ChamomileTeaPages
Summary: After Carl Karl shows up to OWCA sick, Major Monogram decides that he is in no fit state to work. His son, Monty Monogram, takes Carl home and certain secrets are revealed.
Relationships: Carl Karl/Monty Monogram
Comments: 3
Kudos: 19





	A Bout of Love

**Author's Note:**

> Headcanon: Carl gets a LOT more docile when he's sick.

Today’s a beautiful day. The sun is shining, the birds are chirping, and the grass glows emerald green. 

However, your mood is anything _but_ chipper. Your father’s brushed you off, again. You _try_ to talk to him, you really do. But what can you do when he doesn’t try to talk to _you?_

“Dad,” you try again, “can you spare a minute? Just one minute?” 

“I’m sorry, son. But I really must get to work balancing OWCA’s budget. It seems that _Carl_ is sick and he’s the one that always does that.”

“Carl’s sick?”

Your father’s telling you this _now?_

“Yup,” your father mutters as he walks away, “you’ll find him on the top floor, room 856. I _still_ can’t believe he has a larger office than me.” 

He turns back at you, saying, "take him home, would you? I don't want him infecting us with whatever cold or flu he has."

“Sure, dad." 

You walk away, your footsteps clanging loudly on the floor. _Thump, thump, thump_. It soothes you, in some odd way. 

After walking up several flights of stairs, you happen upon Agent P. He looks really tired; the bags under his eyes look big enough to hold the entirety of OWCA's building. 

He salutes you tiredly, the arm motion coming out sluggish and tired. You salute him back, faintly. Through his impassive gaze, you see a small glimmer of friendliness. You can feel his eyes linger on the small of your back as you walk away. 

You knock on the door of Carl’s office. Like every other office, it has a heavy oak door with a peephole. 

He opens the door, and you almost gasp. Carl looks like death. His undereyes look lined with kohl, his cheeks are flushed ochre red, and his face paler than snow. 

He blinks at you piteously. 

“Monty?” he groans, sniffling softly. 

“Yep, that’s me.” 

“Why are you here? Does Major Monogram want something?”

He peers behind your back. 

You wonder how you should phrase this. “No, my father doesn’t want anything. But I really think you should go to bed,” you tell him gently. “You seem pretty sick.” 

“But I have to-” 

“No,” you decide “my dad’s decided that he’s gonna do it. We’re taking _you_ home.” 

He shivers slightly, chills overtaking him. “ _We?_ ”

“What, did you think I was gonna let you drive home? In your current state?”

He shrugs softly. “Let’s go then.” 

“So, where’s your car?” 

“I walked.” 

“Well,” you gnaw the edge of your lips, “we can use my motorcycle.” 

Despite his cold, Carl perks up. “ _You have a motorcycle_?!”

“Yep.” 

You start up the motorcycle and hop on, pulling on a metallic blue helmet and passing one to Carl. He fastens it securely and gets on awkwardly behind you. 

You pull out of OWCA's garage, going a little bit slower than you normally do. You do NOT want to drop him—you don't even think the both of you have enough money to pay for a motorcycle crash. He wraps an arm around you and shivers some more. 

“So where do you live?” 

He coughs slightly before muttering “I live at the big white brick apartment by the grocery store, in Apartment 302.” 

“The one with the statue of a tall Roman woman pouring a bucket of water, surrounded by gardenias and marigolds?” 

“That’s the one.” 

You nod. You know exactly where it is; you’ve taken enough walks around the neighborhood to know its location by heart. 

The drive passes by fairly uneventfully. You can feel Carl relax against you and you assume he’s fallen asleep. Carl doesn’t live that far from OWCA, anyways. 

  
  


“We’re here,” you whisper as you find a parking spot, turning off your motorcycle. 

“Mhm?” he wakes up suddenly. 

“We’re here,” you repeat, gazing back at him. He looks adorable like that, all half-awake and confused. 

He yawns, his jaw cracking loudly. The light of the setting sun highlights how tired he is.

“We should get you into bed,” you observe. 

“You think?” 

Even with his cold, Carl has some of his signature snark. 

Carl stretches his arms and hops off, over-exaggeratedly offering a hand to you. The effect is marred by a fit of coughing (luckily, he coughs into his other elbow.) 

You take the proffered hand and get off. He holds onto your hand a while longer than he needs to, squeezing it tightly. He needs something to hold onto, you think. What with his cold and all. 

“Let...Let’s go,” he stammers out. 

You walk, still hand-in-hand, to Carl’s apartment. It’s on the third floor. The stairs creak underneath your steps and the cloying scent of paint and acetone assaults your nose. 

You cough loudly. 

Carl glances at you and chuckles, “you get used to it.” 

“Why does it smell like _that_?”

He raises one shoulder in a half-shrug. “Repairs, probably.” 

You walk up to his door. It’s fairly sturdy looking, with a brown Maplewood door, a gilded peephole, and _Apartament 302_ written in cursive. You hear meowing inside the apartment. 

“That’s my cat,” Carl says as he unlocks the door. 

“Yeah, I guessed that.”

“Aw, my baby,” he coos, finally letting go of your hand, “my little princess!”

  
  
The cat meows at you. 

“This,” he hoists the cat up onto his shoulder, “is Ghost the Great.” 

You suppose the name is accurate. She’s whiter than the down of a pillow, and her dark blue eyes peer up at you. So, a kitten then. You stroke the soft fur of her cheek, and she blinks at you affectionately. 

“She’s only a kitten!” Carl exclaims. “She keeps me company. I live alone here.” 

You take the opportunity to examine Carl’s living space. It’s fairly clean and tidy with papers are meticulously stacked by what appears to be the order of importance, and books stacked by author in the corner.

“Alright, well…” 

“I’ll tuck you in,” you decide. “If that’s okay with you.” 

Carl smiles, a small blush spreading up his face. 

“That is really okay with me,” he takes you by the arm again, “come on, hold my arm. You might get lost here. It's pretty messy” 

"Messy? Pfft, if this is messy, you should see my house."

"Guess I'll have to, then," he smirks, "just to make sure." 

Ghost follows the two of you, bumping her head on the back of your legs and mewling. 

“I don’t know what she’s mewling about,” Carl says as he sneezes. “I fed her before I left.” 

“Bless you. Maybe she wants you to pet her.” 

“Yeah, probably. And thanks.” 

Carl opens the door to his bedroom. It’s sparsely furnished, with only a twin-sized bed, a small nightstand with a black lamp, and a square dresser. 

“I don’t really have any more money for this at the moment,” Carl remarks, removing his coat and shoes and hopping onto the bed. “Eh, I’ll move my shoes and coat later.”

You tug the covers onto his body, chuckling slightly. You tuck them into the crevices of his body until you’re certain he’s warm and cozy. 

“Hey, Monty?”

“Yeah?” you peer down at him. His green eyes peer at you through his glasses. 

“Thanks,” he says. “Now, this is probably a bad idea, but…”  
  


He pulls you down and kisses you. You wrap gentle hands around his head.

“So, does that mean you like-like me?” you say, heart thudding in your chest. 

“Yeah, I like-like you. I've like-liked you for a while.” 

"I've like-liked you for a while, too. Mind if I crawl into bed with you?”

  
  
“As long as your shoes are off, I don’t care,” Carl mutters. 

You lift the covers and slip into bed with Carl, slipping off your shoes in the process. 

He tugs you closer to him and sighs contentedly. Ghost purrs, settling herself in between the both of you. 

“I’ll stay for a little bit. But you better not have gotten me sick!” you say. 

“Hopefully not, anyway.” 

As Carl drifts off, you examine his face. He’s looking a lot better now: the color is returning to his face and his cheeks look less like he was punched and more like he applied a light pink blush all over his cheeks. He looks pretty like this; if you put some flowers in his hair, he would look like a woodland princess. 

You run your fingers on his cheeks and feel your eyes slip shut.

* * *

The next day, walk into OWCA with the beginnings of a cold forming. Your father shakes his head at you. 

“You know, son,” he says, “maybe you should get that intern you _love_ to take you home like you did with him yesterday.” 

Your father winks at you.

Face flushing, you can only say “yes, dad.”


End file.
